


The Worst Kind Of Monsters

by ThisFragileGame



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisFragileGame/pseuds/ThisFragileGame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3494. That was what they called him. That was all that belonged to him for so long. That and the four grey walls of his room, in a building located in the darkest depths of the Capitol, a place they called The Factory. </p><p>He was sixteen when they finally gave him a proper name - Peeta Mellark. </p><p>*Hunger Games AU*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Originally had this idea as a novel but it didn't work right so have adapted it to a Hunger Games fic. Will probably be updated every couple of weeks. Let me know what you think!

**THE FIRST TIME**

I am six years old.

I am shiny and brand new, in a world that has changed, lost its tarnish. Young and fresh-faced in a world that has begun to show its age.

I am just a child. Small and bony and floppy haired. Walking on feet that _needtorun_ and soothing a heart that beats excitedly in my chest, greatly anticipating what might happen next.

There are two of them, fully grown adults with vacant faces and slanted mouths, standing in the corner of a small, grey room. The air is thick and humid, pressing against me, smothering me. Sweat gathers on my skin and I itch to wipe it away but I don't move.

The first words I hear either of them speak – “He looks human.”

My eyes slowly fall down my body, examining every inch I can see, right to my bare feet. I wriggle my toes, finding the motion quite amusing. I hold my hands out before me, turning them over and closely examining the creases that line my palms and the bones that flex in my fingers. Not a single scratch or flaw.

I look normal. I look human.

But while like the average five year old, my body is slight and fragile, my mind is already broad and brimming, overflowing. Moving _toofast; neverpausing;_ wanting to be _heardandspoken atthesametime._

I can speak fluently in my native English tongue and read and write. I know many things and I quite enjoy this about myself. I like exerting my knowledge, answering the questions they throw out at me with verve, and hearing the different facets of my voice when I speak. The way it goes up and down, how I can stretch out words or make them sharp and short. It's all so wonderful.

I like to be _alive._ To breathe and feel oxygen trickling over my lips as I open my mouth and rushing up my nostrils to fill my lungs.

I've been asleep for a long time. A long, loooong time. I repeat the word in my head in a different way each time until it sounds funny enough to make me laugh out loud.  _Long long long long._ _  
_

Then there comes a question unlike the others. “Do you know what you are?”

I nod, and my mouth forms around the label sitting in the corner of my brain, waiting to be spoken. It comes softly.

_Humanoid._

Something sharp slides under my skin suddenly and I blink and wince at the same time, but I am too distracted by what they say next.

Perfect. I am _perfect._ I have been made _perfectly._ They said so, so it _must_ be true.

And so I ignore the rush of pain, and smile almost angelically, liking the way the muscles in my face moves when I do. It is a symmetrical action on either side of my face that pulls both of the corners of my mouth up because I am happy to be perfect. Not human. Not normal.

But perfect.

Then they ask me if I know what I must do and I reply with an 'I don’t know.'

The last thing I remember is a hand striking my face and everything is hot and dark at the same time.

 

* * *

 

 

**THE SECOND TIME**

 

I am ten years old.

Cramped in this room again, my arms and legs a little longer, my ashy blonde hair now sagging into my eyes.  My hair isn't as curly as it was when I was five. But I can still wrap the waves around my fingers. 

They refer to me as a number. 3494.  I do not like it. I want a name. An identity. 

I want to leave this room. I want to see the districts that I now know exist. 

I ask them when I will be able to leave. They ignore me and I drop my head, knowing I shouldn't have asked in the first place.  _Sit still. Speak only when spoken to. Obeyobeyobey._ _  
_

I know I will never truly be human. I will always be this engineered abomination fostered from a creation never meant to be tampered with but a small, minuscule part of me wants to be.

My head is fuller, and it takes longer to sort through information longer than I would like it to. As I sleep, they load file upon file into my head. English has been joined by so many other languages that are now archaic but useful all the same. I know the many bones and muscles that form me and the way to break and tear each one of them apart. 

Sometimes I wish I did not know that.

My body wants to jump  _outofmyskin_ , and run and jump and move and do all of these things I patiently deny it. I wonder how tall I will grow to be, if I will ever be able to see myself in a mirror, see the full picture instead of only parts of the puzzle.

The men move around me examining every inch of me as I force myself to stay still.

A sudden, sharp needle probes my skin. I do not wince this time. “Do you know what is going on out there?"

I nod, and an unfathomable anger fills me, accompanying my thoughts.  _Stupidhumans. Stupidstupidstupid.  
_

One of them lays a hand on my shoulder and says, “The world is rotting every single day.”

I reply, "I know," and this earns me a look that almost resembles pride. 

They ask me what I think of the people in the districts and I say they don't know what they're doing.

Their reply is to make the grey of the walls come alive and explode into all of the colours of the universe until my eyes finally roll back into my head and deliver me serenity.

* * *

 

**THE THIRD TIME**  
  


I am thirteen.

I am still thin but growing. My shoulders and chest are broader. I am in the same room again and the grey walls are even drabber than before. By now, I know too much. Far too much. I know if I drive the point of my elbow hard into someone’s neck, I can cause their trachea to collapse. I know how to make them stop breathing with _justmyhands._

They stand there, simply staring at me in silence, before parting to reveal a shrivelling mess of a human. My mouth parts and all of the air in my chest rushes out in one throaty exhale and it sounds more like a growl than anything. I watch as he shakes against the tiles, occasionally vomiting a thick stream of blood. He makes small, whimpering noises from the back of his throat, as though he is choking on the dark red sludge oozing from his lips. His body has been ravaged, cruelly torn apart and his arms flail, trying to hold himself together, press against the spots that bleed furiously.

I wait for words to be spoken. I wait for an order but nothing ever comes. And that is when I notice the knife in the centre of the room, just glinting on the floor.

I can see my reflection in it.

My hands should be shaking but they are far _toosteady_ to be mine when they pick up the knife. My footsteps are too even, _toocareful_ to be mine. My heart is barely lurching out of its usual rhythm, _toocalm_ to be mine.

I lower myself to the ground, and the ground is so cold I feel it through the knees of my pants. He is still trembling and I have the unfathomable urge to just end his misery, an urge I should not possess.

And that is when he whispers, “Please,” so quietly I am sure no one else has heard it.

He wants this to be painless.

But that is not what I am supposed to do, am I? It's not what I was made for. 

The blade slides along his neck, and scarlet waves immediately spill out. Every one of my movements is mechanical. Locate and puncture the carotid artery and jugular vein. Drain the blood from his body. He twitches and shakes, fighting for just one more breath. Eventually he stops.

Together, we drown in his blood. I press my temple to the tiles because my skin is on fire but I merely soak myself red, my body soft and boneless as it sinks further into the floor, hoping to be swallowed.

They ask me what I think of the people in the districts and I say they don’t deserve to make their own decisions. They are stupid, foolish beings who are too blind to see the generosity of the Capitol. They deserve to be controlled.

At last there is an approving nod. My voice dull and strangled, I ask them to put me back under and they do, and I know such sweet relief that I have never felt before.

 

* * *

 

 

**THE FINAL TIME**

I am sixteen.

Lights frantically flicker and shimmer over my eyelids and I am busy thinking of all of the different things I know about light – it is the _fastestthingintheuniverse_ and there are three primary colours _redbluegreen –_ when a voice commands me awake.

My eyes calmly open, and the first words that arrive out of my lips are, “How long?”

One of them smiles, a cold, calculated smile, and says, “Forever.”  


 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever to get out, life just got really busy. Hope that its at least somewhat worth the wait.

I stare at the piece of paper in my hands, my tongue moving languidly in my mouth, attempting to wrap itself around words. It is quite possible that I look completely idiotic right now. In fact, I am sure that I do. But I find it very hard to care, because I will never stop silently mouthing to myself the two words that line the top of the page that I grip so tightly my fingers will forever be indented on it.

Peeta Mellark. I have a name.

In the very short time I have been alive, to be given a name, an identity, has been my greatest desire. But now sitting here, reading these twelve letters that signify who I will henceforth be known as, does not fill me with the euphoria I had hoped I would feel. Instead I merely find myself relieved, the corners of my mouth just barely crinkling, my eyes slinking comfortably back under my eyelids.

It is all because of the serum of course, and the small yet effective dosages that they have been administering to me during the intervals of my development. Bit by bit, they have slowly numbed the parts of my brain that control emotions, while in turn strengthening my memory’s ability to retain information. It hasn’t been easy. There is no one section of the brain that they can simply cut out and render me emotionless. But everything is kind of dim and far-away. Now, I can feel only the bubbling of something similar under my skin, stretching my lips into a smile, stealing my heart from its natural rhythm.

"Peeta Mellark." I respond to it automatically like I know I now have to, rising to my feet, paper still clutched tightly in my hand. "Please proceed to the the end of the corridor. Wait for further instructions then."

The doors slide open and I walk out of the room for the first time ever, each one of my footsteps remaining calm and even. The hallway gets wider, the light stronger the further I go. There's a strange glow coming up ahead and when I get close, I realise where it is coming from.

The tubes. There are at least ten of them, long and cylindrical, set out in a neat row. Inside each is a human in different stages of life, suspended by wires, cocooned by a pale green goo, oxygen masks strapped over their mouths. The smallest one looks just out of the womb while the biggest is surely reaching the end of teenage-dom. Only some reach full term. If the doctors don't see a particular specimen anymore, if they are not required, they’ll terminate before it reaches age. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones then, to have made it to sixteen, to have been needed. 

I might be physically sixteen but I have only been alive for a couple of years. One of these tubes once belonged to me, but I don't remember any of it. The only real memories I have are of the grey room, when they took me out so they could load up my brain and track my physical progression. 

Twenty years ago, what was left of North America became Panem, a nation filled with thirteen districts that ringed the Capitol. Without the generosity of the Capitol, what was left of the world would have crumbled. One of the new laws imposed was the requirement of a DNA sample upon birth. Originally these were used to detect any signs of gene mutation, anything that might suggest humans had a stronger or weaker chance of surviving in a new order. The survival of the human race needed to be ensured. But they soon found a different use for the samples.

When hints of unrest started seven years ago, they created muttations called Jabberjays, with the capacity to mimic human voices and report back what they heard. But the rebels must have learnt what was going on because they started spreading false rumours, that essentially rendered the creation useless. The Capitol had to find another way to snuff out the ungrateful ones.

Which lead to our creation. The best scientists in the Capitol deployed Project Double, using the samples stored away to create clones which are superior in every way.

Stronger. Quicker. Smarter. Our memory retention and intelligence is second to none. We are the next stage of evolution.

Not entirely human. But better. _Humanoids._

At any time, teenagers from the ages of sixteen to nineteen can be reaped for 'special testing', from whatever district is reporting the most trouble. Tributes. They are taken here to the Factory, imprisoned, required to do manual labor here for the rest of their lives. I'm not sure if any of them have been ever allowed back, if after we've completed our jobs, the doctors are able to wipe their minds. Make them forget all the time they've lost, all the things they've seen.

I wonder what will happen to me once I've done my job.

At the end of the hall is a closed door. There's a red light flashing right on top. 

"State your name."

"Peeta Mellark.

The red light turns to green and the door slides open to reveal a classroom, filled with nine other teenagers like me. All of them sit perfectly still, hands crossed neatly in their laps and not one head turns when I enter and slip into the last seat available, next to a redheaded girl who almost resembles a fox.

"About time," says the man at the front. He is leaning against a desk, twirling a cigarette between stubby fingers. He is no perfect athletic specimen, at least twenty kilos overweight, his shirt buttons straining. He grins, without even looking up. "About time."

He puts out the cigarette on his desk, singing it slightly. A wisp of smoke shoots into the air and from where I sit, I can see the little black burn mark he's left on the wood. "I'm Haymitch Abernathy but you can call me Sir. I'm your handler. I am responsible for everything you do. Which means if you fail, I fail too." He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a silver flask. "So don't fail."

 _Don't fail._ But I am not bred for failure. I am bred for greatness.

“Your job is to detect any hints of rebellion. You are to slip back into the lives of your identifies without arousing suspicion, integrating yourself into society. You have been given a fact file of everything you need to know. We will train you. But you must listen to every single word I say. Understand?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Etiquette classes with Miss Trinket will begin tomorrow as will training with me. I suggest you read on your files, memorise them, eat, get some rest. Because you won’t be getting any over the next few weeks."

Before we leave, each of us collect our files. They're filled with everything that the handlers here at the Factory have squeezed out of the tributes as well as their own answers from the numerous tests and questioning they underwent here. For some reason, memories cannot be properly copied into our brains. They belong solely to their owner, almost like they're too personal to be shared. Trying to retract them creates only fuzzy duplicates.

At the front of the line, Haymitch is spending a very long time talking with some girl. I don't get a glimpse of her face as she leaves, only the hint of a braid. As I move to the front of the line, my eyes catch Haymitch's. He stares at me and I see that his silver eyes are bloodshot. His black hair is long, tied up in a messy ponytail. The information in my head leaves me to deduce that he is not from the Capitol but most likely from one of the outlier districts, probably Twelve. 

My senses, already so much better than a normal human's, are able to smell the alcohol oozing from his pores. It makes me wrinkle my nose.  

"Mellark, right?" I nod. There's something in his gaze then, something almost like....regret. But it's gone so quick I can't be sure it was ever there at all. He shoves my file at me and I manage to clasp my fingers around it just before it slips from my grasp. I turn and exit and follow the rest of them out the room. I hop into the elevator with a few of them. When we reach the bottom floor, the boy standing next to me suddenly steps in front of him, holding out a large hand.

“Gale Hawthorne. District Twelve." He has short, uncombed black hair and gunmetal grey eyes that couldn't pretend to be less interested in me if they tried. He's at least a few inches taller than me and though he's not small to begin with, he looks like he would have no problem stacking on more muscle. "We'll be rooming next to each other for the next three weeks."

"Peeta Mellark. Twelve as well." 

“I know,” he answers. His lips are full, set in a straight line, his nose long and straight. There is no way he is sixteen as well, he must be older. “Let's go and sit.”

I nod and we head into the dining hall, receiving our meals from a young woman whose mouth is set strangely. When she hands me a tray filled with food, I automatically reply my thanks. Her light smile makes me realise she is an Avox, her tongue cut out of her mouth. I turn sharply away, no longer interested in being polite to someone who's obviously committed crimes against the Capitol.

Gale and I sit at a table by ourselves. The other few in the class dissipate, spreading around the tables. The room is so quiet I feel like if I concentrated hard enough, I could hear their heartbeats, hear their blood moving through their veins. Every now and then, there will be a few low spoken words, not even remotely interesting.

When the sound of a chair scraping against the tiles sounds out a couple of minutes later, I lift my head, as does everyone else. Someone has just entered the hall. 

It's the girl I saw talking to Haymitch, sitting at a table by herself. She is wearing a long sleeved knit jumper and jeans that seem painted onto her legs like a second skin. She looks almost uncomfortable in them. This uneasiness is there is the way her arms bend and rest at the edges of her lap, like they aren’t sure they belong in there and her legs are half shoved under the table, half poking nervously outward. Her head hangs downward, staring at what I don’t know. She has dark hair not unlike Gale’s, braided by her shoulder, a few strands hanging by her eyes.

“Do you know who that is?”

Gale’s eyes sidle over to me, and then in the girl’s direction. The bored look on his face briefly makes way for a flicker of recognition. “Katniss Everdeen. She's from Twelve too. We were introduced this morning. She’s been assigned to be my girlfriend.”

I blink, the information catching my attention. Three of us from Twelve. Which must mean that there are serious problems going on there for them to even consider sending three of us. 

He continues without noticing that I have momentarily spaced out. “According to our files, we’re already quite familiar with each other, best friends apparently. A romantic relationship seems the next logical step, one they’d like us to take, to allow us to be in each other's company as often as possible.” He sips from his water and after a pause, adds, “She’s your age. Sixteen.”

 _Katniss Everdeen_. I roll the name around in my head.  “Is she nice?” I ask.

“Doesn’t talk much,” he replies, as if this is a sufficient answer.  _Neither do you._

“Are you happy? Having her for a girlfriend?"

Gale shrugs. “Doesn’t matter really, does it? If I wasn’t?”

I swirl my spoon around in my soup. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

At that exact moment, her head rears up, as if she knows we are talking about her. Initially I think she is staring at Gale, her soon-to-be boyfriend, perhaps perusing him but then I realise she is staring at _me._

I see that her eyes are a stormy grey-blue and they do not belong among her soft cheekbones and the thin layer of baby fat that rounds her face. She almost looks like she could be Gale’s sibling, rather than his girlfriend.

She looks away from me after a little while, stuffing a bread roll in her mouth and I turn back to Gale. It takes me a second “Do you want to invite her to sit with us?”

He stands abruptly, tray in hand. “Not really. I want to go back to my room and sleep.” 

I tell him that I’ll join him, feeling kind of tired myself. You would think I would have had enough sleeping for a lifetime but it’s been a long day. And besides, I should start reading my file. Haymitch does not seem like someone to be crossed.

On our way to our rooms, a sound stops me in my tracks. Gale keeps walking like he hasn't noticed, which I know is impossible. I have to catch back up to him, grabbing at his arm to draw his attention.

“Someone’s screaming," I say.

“Yeah.” Gale's apathy rivals anything I could muster. Instead I feel like curiosity has been forced into my bones, a part of my genetic make up.

“We should investigate.”

Gale doesn’t disagree, and I take this as his assent and lead him towards the wild, almost feral noises, his steps light and careful behind me. The Factory is sort of like a maze but my top notch hearing quickly leads me to the scene.

Two peacekeepers have a teenage boy by the arms, dragging him down the hall. He resists with everything he has, trying to dig his feet into the carpet. “Let me go, please, I’ll be good,” he begs, and I watch liquid droplets roll down his face, racing down the slopes of his pale cheeks to see which one of them can drip into his open mouth first. He throws his head back again, letting out another bellowing scream. His arms and legs jerk violently as the noise swells in his chest.

“What’s happening Gale?” I ask quietly but he is silent, unmoving at my side.

The boy shakes the hair matted to his flushed skin out of his eyes and in clearing his vision, sees the two of us standing at the end of the hall. “Please help me,” he whimpers, and his eyes find mine. The sheer desperation in them is something I don’t understand.

“You should move along boys,” says one of the peacekeepers.

So we do We automatically head back in the direction we came, circling around the corridors until we finally make our way back to our rooms. I pause outside my door, my hands so sweaty I have to wipe them down my pants.

“He was crying,” I say in amazement, still unable to get the picture of the boy out of my head. I shake my head in disbelief. “We don’t cry. We can’t.” The serum designed to numb most of our emotions doesn't leave us capable of doing so. 

“Yeah I know,” he says uninterested, and I don’t know what I was expecting, because Gale feels less than me. “He’s obviously a Malfunction.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, here's the next chapter, hope you like it, sorry for any mistakes. I got it out in a little bit of a rush.

The images of the boy don't leave me even as I lie down in bed. I can’t imagine anything worse than being a Malfunction.

The serum designed to numb the emotional response center of our brain does not always work. Sometimes there are those who cannot switch their emotions off, who cannot think straight because they feel so strongly, are ruled completely by their emotions. Therefore they are almost useless at strictly following their Handler’s orders, at being able to go undetected and slip back into their life. Their mental and emotional state goes out the window. 

Unfortunately, if the serum doesn’t work the first time, it won’t work a second time. You’re labelled as a Malfunction and carted off to your death. If you’re lucky, you might get to spend a few years serving in The Factory. If you’re lucky.

I think I’d prefer being terminated before being awoke for the final time. Then I wouldn’t have to be aware of what I was missing out on, how good it feels just to walk and breathe and live.

Before I close my eyes, I decide to get a head start on reading my file. As I read, I memorise the information on the pages, I become Peeta.

He has two older brothers, both of whom he once used to be close with as a child. I learn about the mother he detests, that is rather fond of physically berating him with only the slightest provocation; the father who does not say much, but works hard to run the business and provide for them. Everything is rather standard but when I turn to the next page, detailing his close friendships, a paragraph at the bottom catches my eye.

_"Under extreme coercion, Peeta Mellark admitted to having feelings for his fellow classmate Katniss Everdeen. Mellark attempted to relay a story revolving around their first day of school and Miss Everdeen's singing abilities but the finer details were unable to be coerced out of Mr Mellark due to the heavy sedation. Upon further deliberation, it has been decided that no official relationship of any capacity is to be formed between Mr Mellark and Miss Everdeen as the strict class lines of District Twelve and a lack of prior communication and familiarity between the two suggest this is not wise and may arouse suspicion."_

I snap the file shut at that point, holding it tightly against my chest, almost willing my heart to speed up, feel something about this information. 

The real Peeta Mellark liked Katniss Everdeen. Maybe he even loved her. And he never got to tell her before he was taken.

But perhaps wherever they are, he finally can. 

I do not owe him anything. This is the way things are, the way they must be for the sake of society. The greater good is bigger than one person or even nine.

But I hope he does get her. It's the one thing I want for him.

* * *

 

Our etiquette teacher Effie Trinket is, in a word, uptight. I have no idea what she really looks like, because she is so often hiding behind a ton of make up and a range of wigs that vary in colour and volume. Manners are quite important to her, as she so displays when Ella Coleman - the redhead who looks like a fox - forgets to say thank you when Effie hands her a glass of water. Effie slaps Ella's hands and makes her sit in the corner for an hour, like she is a misbehaving child.

One day, she makes us stand up completely straight, for fifteen minutes without so much as twitching. She's tough but I can see some motherly kind of affection in her eyes sometimes when we do something right. We are reflections of her. If we do well, she does well. I wonder if she likes it here, or if she is using this place as a platform for higher honours. What I know of Effie leads me to think she is ambitious, desperate for advancement.

Haymitch joins in on a class one day, as we read scripts that Effie has supplied us, trying to get us used to speaking like teenagers. Gale and another boy are standing on a little stage that has been set up at the front of the room, demonstrating for us. But unfortunately it isn't going well.

"Everybody's talking about how you were with the mayor's daughter last night at the slag heap."

"I don't know anything about that," says Gale. "But if I did, I might say that she sure knew what she was doing." He sighs, dropping the paper in disgust. He turns towards Effie sharply, his face twisted in frustration. "This doesn't feel real."

"Mr Hawthorne," says Effie, looking astonished that he's dared to question her. "I beg your -"

"Let me handle this Eff," interrupts Haymitch, laying a hand over her forearm. She looks stunned by the touch but acquiesces to Haymitch, allowing him to handle this.

Haymitch climbs the steps slowly and for a second, I’m not sure what he is doing until he marches right up to Gale and punches him so hard in the face he falls off the stage with a thud. He falls onto his hands and knees, spitting out the blood filling his gums. He doesn't move for a minute but I know he cannot be in too much pain. I think it is simply the shame and embarrassment he feels.

His head is still hanging down when Haymitch wanders over to him, hovering beside him. He leans down until his mouth is right above Gale's ear. His voice is low and careful but we all hear the menace, the threat in every single syllable. The fact that he does not yell somehow makes it worse. “If you can’t convince them that you are one of them, everything will be over. Do you understand? This is not a game. Only five others were woken before you. Do not take this lightly."

Haymitch grabs at the back of Gale's shirt and pulls him up, shoving him back towards his chair. "Get on with it. And this time, let's try to listen to Miss Trinket, alright?"

The rest of the hour is much less uneventful. Gale doesn't speak for the rest of the day.

* * *

In Haymitch's next lesson, we have a visitor. He introduces himself as Seneca Crane, another handler in The Factory. His beard is thick and shaped in a strange pattern. He is dressed much better than Haymitch, in a fine red and black suit. I am not sure whether he is a native Capitolite but he sure has adopted every facet of one. 

"What are you doing here Crane?" asks Haymitch when he spots the man standing in the doorway. Haymitch's teeth are gritted, his jaw tight. I infer from his behavior that he does not approve of Crane. It is clear their relationship is tense. 

"I heard you had a class, I thought I'd come offer some help." He turned to someone out of view, gesturing with a hand. "Bring them in."

A couple of peacekeepers follow Crane into the room and they themselves lead in a group of teenagers. One of them is the boy from the other night, the one Gale and I saw getting dragged off. I look down the row of them, examining them all closely. One of the other boys is shaking like he's about to take off; the tall girl down the end is sobbing so loudly it sounds like she's hiccuping as well. 

Sobbing. It hits me all so fast that for a second it seems as the world is moving under my feet but I can't move at all.

Malfunctions. Five of them. All around my age, probably from the group that was awakened around the same time as me.

But the serum didn't work on them. It could have been me standing in their place.

"Who's going to take this opportunity?" asks Crane, eyeing us all.

Gale steps up first. Though he would not admit to it, it seemed like his pride was rattled by Haymitch the other day. His expression is even as he steps up towards the boy we saw the other day. His eyes widen - he seems to recognise Gale - but no words come from his trembling lips. Gale simply stands in front of him, staring, and I find myself wishing I knew what he was thinking.

"Do it," spits Crane. Gale slides one hand under the boy's jaw, the other around his neck, and I watch every one of his thick fingers press into skin hard. He pauses, waits a second before his wrists move in a flurried motion, and then there's a loud crack, and bones shifting under fingers.

And then a dead body on the floor. 

Crane selects a few others before he comes over to me. He threads his fingers in my shaggy blonde curls and tugs me forward until I am standing in front of a Malfunction. "This is specimen 2396," says Crane. "He would have replaced Richie Jalke in District Three. Unfortunately that isn't going to happen now. A part of being here is doing what you're told, what needs to be done. This needs to be done."

Crane's hands fit around mine, guiding them to the correct places on Specimen 2396's neck and head. Then he releases them, stepping back and examining them with a satisfied nod. “Okay now.”

2396 starts to jolt under my fingertips. I can feel heat, the blood rushing to his body and it starts to burn my own skin. My grip tightens and I suck in one long, deep breath, feeling the air rush down my nostrils, spreading to my toes. He starts to mumble now, and I think he's saying please, and then I'm thirteen and holding that knife again and I want this to be over, I want him to be dead. Now now now now.

“Now.”

I close my eyes.

_Crack!_

I open them. I look down.

2396 is on the floor. I don’t know how he got there. I don’t know when I dropped him. But I know he isn’t breathing anymore. He isn’t doing anything anymore.

My throat tightens, and my stomach clenches. This is the sliver of emotion they let us keep. But right now it feels like too much. 

I look up and see that I am being watched. By Haymitch, who is simply leaning against his desk, motionless. His hand is resting inside his jacket and I have no doubt he is clutching tightly onto the flask that hides in his inside pockets. And by Katniss, who is standing in front of another malfunction but looking at me. Why is she looking at me?

Crane must notice because he leaves my side and marches over to her. He grabs the back of her neck and pushes her head forward. He presses something into her hand and I only see silver, just a flash, before she quickly moves forward. I realise it is a knife when she buries it to the hilt in the girl's stomach.

The girl throws her head back, gasping loudly, body sagging forward against Katniss’s. Katniss’s wrist tightens and twists, relishing another gasp from her victim and she is practically holding the girl in her arms. When Katniss removes the knife and steps away, the girl collapses onto the ground.

“Excellent,” says Crane. “This spot, right here under the ribcage. Twist then release. That's what you want." He rests a hand on Katniss's back, probably too close to her behind for a stranger to be touching her. Her mouth twitches but her face remains still. "You did really good," he murmurs, loud enough for me to hear even from here. He stands right beside her for a long time, looking like he's breathing on her neck and his hand slides a little lower. Katniss just stares down at the body that won't stop twitching, won't die. 

I think vaguely about how the real Peeta would feel, watching Crane hovering around Katniss like this. 

Haymitch clears his throat loudly, wandering over to Crane and Katniss. He snatches Katniss by the arm and basically shoves her back towards us all. She half-stumbles into Gale and he quickly pulls her upright. Crane gives a tight smile, his eyes never leaving Katniss. He looks at her like she might be a meal and it makes my chest feel stuffy, like blockades have been set up all over my lungs.

"You done here Crane?" spits Haymitch.

"Yeah, I think I am," says Crane, licking his lips. He looks around at us all, giving a few loud, almost sarcastic sounding claps that resonate in the room. "Good job. Looks like you're doing something right Haymitch."

"Looks like it," replies Haymitch dryly. "Guess that's why they keep me around, despite you constantly trying to get me sent back to Twelve."

Crane's lips curl up into a scowl. "I'll have to try harder," he says. He nods at the peacekeepers, who set about trying to clear away the bodies.

"You're all dismissed," says Haymitch, kicking at a chair as he turns away from us. "Go clean up."

All of us head straight for the showers. I wash myself clean, scrub my skin until it's raw before changing into some fresh clothes. We have a little free time until we have to run circuits before dinner and I decide to spend it in the research room, which is filled with books detailing Panem's short history. I walk towards the sprawling bookcases, my fingers scaling the spines, before realising I am not alone in the room.

Katniss is curled up in a ball, hemmed between the couch and wall. Her hands are still wet with blood, and it spreads to her pants as she tightly grips her kneecaps. I approach her quietly but I expect her to lift her head and hear me coming. But she continues staring at the floor, her shoulders are vibrating ever so slightly. When I'm close enough to touch her shoulder, she rears up, every limb of her body jolting, tensing, readying. The look on her face startles me. Her eyes are kind of hazy, almost like she's been drugged, and her bottom lip is bright red, dotted with blood, like her teeth were trying to tear through it.  

“Is everything alright Katniss?

"Fine," she mumbles. "I just…found myself not feeling well after class.”

“Me too. What do you think that is?”

She tilts her head at me, and then the corners of her lips are curling slightly. “I don’t know.” She rises to her full stature and I study her body in front of me, small but strong, a couple of inches shorter than me. "I'm going to go to my room and lie down for a little bit. I'll see you later Peeta."

Katniss moves past me, brushing her fingers lightly on my arm as she departs, and I stare at the faint red marks she leaves on my skin for a long time.

* * *

It is not until the next afternoon that I notice that Katniss is not in Effie's class, nor was she at breakfast or in Haymitch's session that morning. Effie is in the middle of addressing us when I cannot help the words that shoot suddenly out of my mouth, unable to be contained. "We're missing someone."

Effie purses her lips, looking thoroughly annoyed at the fact I have spoken out of turn. "I don't think that's how we address people Mr Mellark."

"Miss Trinket, please excuse my rude interruption but we seem to be missing someone in the class. Katniss Everdeen."

"Miss Everdeen has had to report to the infirmary," says Effie, waving a hand dismissively. "It is unclear when she will be back. But let's get back to the matter at hand." She eyes me with disdain and I just know that she is thinking up some kind of punishment that will no doubt make me regret interrupting her. "Manners."

No one else seems too bothered with Katniss's absence, not even her boyfriend-to-be Gale, and after that, even I drop it. There's too much to do, so much energy to expend, not enough time to think about Katniss. She completely slips from my mind as the days go by, and we immerse ourselves in training. Upon waking up, we report to medical testing, where they measure our vitals and monitor our health. Our day then consists of Haymitch's class, followed by Effie's etiquette lessons, along with weightlifting and running. Then we eat to our stomachs are full and go to sleep for ten hours, only to repeat the cycle again the next day. 

It isn't until nine days pass that it fully hits me that Katniss has never returned.

I corner Haymitch to find answers, knowing that he is not as oblivious as he sometimes pretends to be. "Sir, do you know where Katniss Everdeen is?"

Haymitch shuffles papers on his desk like he is trying his hardest to ignore m very presence. "How is Everdeen's absence your problem?"

"It isn't. But aren't we trained to assess our surroundings, to have a healthy curiosity about our world."

Haymitch chuckles roughly. "I suppose you are." He sighs, lifting his head up towards the ceiling, squinting his eyes at the cameras rotating out of the ceiling before he looks back down at me. "They found a flaw in Everdeen while she was in the infirmary."

"A flaw? What kind of flaw?"

"That's privileged information. But I expect her to return tomorrow." He hacks out a wet sounding cough, quickly reaching for the mug on his desk that smells of liquor. "That satisfy your curiosity Mellark?"

"Yes sir." Her imminent return must mean that must have cleared all possibility of her being a Malfunction. There must have been something in her genetics, something they didn't spot earlier.

True to Haymitch's word, Katniss returns the next morning for breakfast. She looks a little skinnier than she did before, her olive skin just a fraction lighter, as though she was sick. We're not supposed to get sick but perhaps that is the flaw they found in her. Perhaps they found an illness that the original Katniss Everdeen had a preposition to that they needed to eradicate. 

To my surprise, she doesn't sit down by herself when she's collected her breakfast. Instead she sits down at the table with Gale and me, opposite us, her feet brushing against mine before she tucks them back under her chair. It is so fleeting that I am sure it must be accidental instead of on purpose. Gale's eyes flitter upwards from his honey laced porridge. "You're back."

Despite the somewhat colourless complexion, her grey eyes are clear and strong. She could be thrown in a fight to the death and I am sure she would find a way to get out of it. She just has the look of a survivor. "Yes. Got the all clear."

"Good news," says Gale, and he awkwardly reaches over the back of the hand she has resting on the table. Katniss blinks, obviously surprised by the gesture, as am I. I guess Gale is making a serious effort to form some connection on the surface, no matter how fake it may be underneath, considering they will have to be seen together back in Twelve.

Katniss's lips give a somewhat genuine tug and she nods. Her gaze slides over to me ever so briefly as she says, "Yes, it is."

* * *

 

On Katniss's first day back, we head to Miss Trinket's Etiquette lessons in the late afternoon as usual. Katniss sits between Gale and I, while a dark haired girl takes the seat on my either side. She's pretty, in a messy kind of way, with dark hair and wide green eyes. She introduces herself as Annie Cresta before she turns her head back to the front and doesn't say another word to me.

Effie enters the room in a bit of a huff a couple of seconds later. I don't know what's gotten into her for her to be in such a mood. Perhaps she's been hanging around Haymitch too much.   
  
Her eyes immediately narrow in on my row and for a moment I think she is staring at me. I am wondering what awful exercises she's going to put us through when she says, "Gale and Katniss, can you please come up here."

They dutifully rise and walk to the front of the room. Effie rests a hand each on their shoulders. "You've been assigned as a couple, which means you must act like a couple. You know the mechanics of kissing and sex I presume." Both of them nod. Katniss's jaw tightens slightly. "Well we're going to run through some relationship procedures, and you'll be our demonstrators, okay?"

For the next few minutes, Effie instructs Katniss and Gale, moving them into positions like they're her own personal puppets. Gale's arm on Katniss's shoulder, around her waist, resting on her knee. His lips against her ear, her neck, her jaw. His fingers brushing down her throat, through her hair. 

Katniss resting one leg in between his. Snuggling against his side, holding him close to her. Cupping his face in between her hands. Locking her arms behind his neck. Resting a hand on his chest. I think they're supposed to be romantic gestures but both of them seem very blase. Gale looks like he's reading the most boring book ever invented while Katniss won't meet his eyes at all. 

When she's half-sitting in his lap, his hands on her hips, Effie lets out an exasperated sigh, clearly done. Even I understand her frustration. There is no way no one would ever believe they are dating the way they behave with each other. "Stare at him like you adore him Katniss, not like you're disgusted by him. You too Gale. God, you're both so wooden. I know you don't have too many real emotions but that is why we do this. To teach you how to act. Fake it. Normal teenagers can't keep their hands off of each other for one minute. Just please give me something."

Katniss's face changes immediately at the instruction, softens into something like real tenderness, and she gently touches Gale's strong jaw before leaning forward and lightly touching her lips to his. Everyone in the class, including me, leans forward to closely examine it, having never seen a kiss in real life. The only thing it looks like to me is the exchange of saliva but I know it is the way that humans show affection, love. 

When Katniss withdraws, the muscles in Gale's face that are usually so wound tight have slackened, and he actually almost looks like a love struck, reverent teenager, gazing up at her. I almost believe it and I know normal humans would. Katniss's fingers slide off of Gale's face, and her breathing has accelerated out of its rhythm, the only sound to be heard in the otherwise entirely silent classroom.

Then Effie claps loudly, her voice piercing the air, breaking through three octaves. "Lovely! Now that's what I'm talking about."


End file.
